Wardens' Plight
by xxsewnlipsxx
Summary: Duncan knew six Warden-Commanders. Three men, three women. Six deaths. Original characters. Mahariel/Alistair
1. Sylvaria

**Title: Wardens' Plight**

**Rating: T**

**Summary: Duncan knew six Warden-Commanders. Three men, three women. Six deaths. Original characters. Mahariel/Alistair**

**A/N: Thanks for reading.**

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><p><span>Sylvaria<span>

Duncan met Sylvaria in Orlais while requesting wardens on behalf of King Maric. He was young then, freshly snatched from the Gallows, and by all rights, he shouldn't have been the one leading such an important rendezvous. Still, orders were orders. He tried to put on a good face for his men. Though most of them were older than him and resentful of his command, Duncan managed to escort a small compliment all the way to Orlais to meet with the Warden-Commander.

He was startled to see not a pale-faced noblewoman who knew how to handle a dagger, but a plucky, dark-skinned dwarf with only half the necessary entourage to be wandering the streets at night. Her manner was brusque, her orders succinct. He might have thought her dull if not for the careful way her eyes followed every move he made. She seemed to catalogue everything about him before extending her hand, intelligence gleaming in her black eyes.

"Warden-Commander Sylvaria," she said in her thick, Orlesian accent. "You must be Duncan."

"It is an honor."

Her eyes clipped to the men behind him. "How many do you want?"

…

At the Grey Warden headquarters, he saw her potential and skill at leading. She might have been the shortest person in the training room, but to her men she was a ten feet tall. They listened to her every word. They stood on their toes when she entered a room. What seemed strangest to him was that she didn't appear to be putting on a show for him. The men worked as though they did so every day. She didn't offer him any special hospitality. No great banquet was made in his honor. Only when necessary did she introduce him to anyone. When she selected the men, there were no groans or complaints.

In her office, he saw the sparse furniture, bereft of anything remotely sentimental. A rotting Hurlock skull sat on the corner of her desk with a silver trinket wrapped around one of the horns, and he tried not to raise his eyebrow. "They are not my best," she confessed, "but they will do for what you have in mind. My best I need here."

"I would not dream of asking more," Duncan said courteously, as his superior had instructed him. "Orlais has been more than gracious."

"These Grey Wardens don't belong to Orlais," she reminded him tersely. "They belong to me."

…

Duncan spent three days at the Orlesian Keep, and he learned what it meant to be a Grey Warden under Syvlaria's rule. Regimes were harsh. Food was scarce as the Wardens were ill-supplied. She paced in front of them with her quick eyes, shouting orders as the men trained together in the courtyard. The building behind loomed like an archdemon, though Duncan had never seen one and hoped he never would. The fear and rush he felt while following the men and women around him was probably comparable, though. After years of conditioning, even he was out of breath by the end. One of his own men stumbled into the bushes to vomit, a female Warden following and panting kind words.

"We are all united by blood and Blight," Sylvaria called out to her men, but she was staring at Duncan. "The young and the weak with us today will become hard tomorrow. Ferelden, Orlesian, or Antivan, it doesn't matter. We are Wardens. We carry no nationality, no ties. Interchangeable pieces used to fight the Blight. We are all harbingers of war. Those that fall are not lost to us. One day, as we joined to become Grey Wardens, we will join the fallen again in death."

A chorus rang out from the men and women around him, heads bowed. "So shall it be."

Duncan cast a glance at the man vomiting, shaking. He put a hand to his chest, listening to the beating of his heart and whispered, "So…so shall it be."

…

Sylvaria picked him to go down into the Deep Roads, and expedition lead by herself, no less. Duncan was surprised right out of his sleepy stupor and soreness, and he nearly sprung off the chair in her office. "Warden-Commander," he said, trying not to sound cowardly, "surely there are other, more experienced Wardens that can go with you."

"You're young, and you need experience," she snapped, unrolling a map she pulled from a drawer in her desk. "How do you teach a duster respect?"

"I-I don't know."

"You _show _him." Pointing at the map with one of her small fingers, she stared at him with a challenge sparkling in her eyes.

…

"Buck up, boy," she hit the back of his knees with her broadsword, and he nearly fell over. The Deep Roads was everything they had said it would be. Every nook and crevice was splattered with swollen blood and bile. Gore piled in the corners; skeletons crunched under his feet. Bloated corpses surrounded by flies lined the skinny hallways they followed. How the dwarves could live so close to such an ongoing massacre, he didn't know. The smell made him want to vomit.

As Sylvaria sidled forward, leading the team, he stood in place. A small hand came to rest on his shoulder, and he turned to look into the eyes of a pretty elven girl with bright blue eyes. "Don't mind her," she said in a soft soprano with only a slight accent. "The Commander doesn't know what it's like the first time. She grew up so close to this place. Maker, she _played _near the entrance as a child."

"It's just…" Duncan drew in a breath, tasting death on his tongue. "I don't…"

"Hey," the elven girl said, lifting his hand that held his blade. He was numb. He could barely feel her touch. "Just…keep your blade and shield up. If you hear something, get ready. You're going to be all right. You get used to it." With a reassuring pat on his back, she stepped around a pile of nug bones and fell into place behind the Commander.

Eventually, Duncan forced himself to move.

…

Years later, he was visiting Orlais to find promising recruits. Instead, he found a Grey Warden with red hair and a charming smile. They sat down at a tavern and had a few drinks. The man was kind but not too far from his Calling. Grey tinged his hair. Wrinkles at the corners of his eyes gave him a friendly look. Duncan decided quite early on in the evening that he liked the man.

"Shame about what happened to the Warden-Commander, don't you think?" he said suddenly, shaking his head over a pint.

Duncan glanced up in surprise. "Sylvaria? Why, what happened to her?"

"You mean you haven't heard?" asked the man.

"No."

"Sad story," he frowned at his ale. The liquid was starting to sit unpleasantly in Duncan's stomach. He set his own mug down, glaring at it as if it had bit him. "They say she was betrayed by one of her own men. Knife stuck in her ribs. I say it was the Antivans, those Crows. Eh, they're trying a man now for the deed, but I saw her Wardens. Not one of them, not a single damn one, would harm her before cutting his own throat."

As the story finished, Duncan thought he should say something, but he couldn't think of a single word.

…

She was entombed in Orlais, appropriately. Duncan brushed some of the moss from the plaque as the rain fell heavily downward and dripped in his eyes. Four names were carved into the stone, other commanders that had served at the same Keep. The tomb was in the shape of a griffin with its beak open, wings halfway spread, as if giving out war cry.

Duncan knew his sentiment was silly. He hadn't known her well—he'd barely known her at all. Just a few days he'd spent at her Keep, learning to fight. She'd only spoken to him because he was the liaison. Yet he felt he owed her something. His first venture into the Deep Roads had been under her command. She'd taught him something, even if he couldn't completely identify what it was.

So maybe standing in front of a tomb filled with a stranger's body was odd, but the words she'd said on a hot summer day came back to him as if on the wind.

_We __are __united __by __blood __and __Blight. __We __are __Wardens. __We __carry __no __nationality, __no __ties. __Interchangeable __pieces __used __to __fight __the __Blight. __We __are a__ll __harbingers __of __war. __Those __that __fall __are __not __lost __to __us. __One __day, __as __we __joined __to __become __Grey __Wardens, __we __will __join __the __fallen __again __in __death._

Duncan whispered back into the sweet night air, "So shall it be."

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><p><strong>Five more to go. Thanks for reading. Review please.<strong>


	2. Elaron

Elaron

Duncan was in a tavern in Antiva, cloaked in black and sitting casually in the corner nursing a mug of beer. His contact was late, a skinny elf with a high voice and hidden intentions. She carried a dagger in her boot and a poisoned needle in her opal ring—a paranoid and unpleasant woman he did not look forward to encountering again. He was staring at his hand when a body slid into the seat opposite him. When he glanced up, he did not see a woman.

He was an elf, to be sure. His large ears stuck up from beneath a shock of blond hair that extended to his shoulders where a hood was pooled about his neck. A slight stubble grazed his jaw, an oddity for any elf. Piercing violet eyes gazed at Duncan with a completely casual certainty. Long fingers slid a bit of parchment across the table, the other hand tapping out a seamless rhythm on the wood.

"Hmm," he hummed, "you are no raw recruit. Kasha was cruel in her description. Hardly surprising."

Duncan found himself immediately charmed by the warm Antivan accent that followed each word. His regular contact had a harsh, growling way of speaking. He cleared his throat. "Where _is_ Kasha this evening, friend?"

The young man smiled slightly, turning his head. His eyeteeth were menacing, sharp as only an elf's could be. He tapped the parchment with his finger, drawing Duncan's eye back to it. "It would seem Grey Wardens are not all honorable."

He immediately understood and felt foolish for not realizing it. Kasha had tried to betray the order. She had always been selfish, but he hadn't thought her capable of such treachery. He silently thanked the Maker for the elf's timely intervention. The list of names in the wrong hands could have started a war.

Glancing around, Duncan took the paper and slid it into his cloak but not before catching the unmistakable insignia etched into the young man's out-turned wrist: a crow imprinted in indelible ink. He was in the presence of an assassin. "Send my thanks to your masters for retrieving it."

"Oh, I will do no such thing. I cannot imagine the consequences for doing such a thing."

"You were acting on your own?" Duncan asked with some surprise. The names in the paper were valuable to anyone with the right connections. He could have sold it and made quite a profit.

"I was…acting," he grinned. "Yes, that is the right word."

"You have my gratitude then," he inclined his head as he stood up, ready to leave the noisy inn. His commander was waiting for him. They had business underground.

The Antivan laughed and relaxed into his seat. "Farewell then, Grey Warden. Remember this kindly, perhaps, if we meet again under less pleasant circumstances."

Duncan couldn't help but smile. His laugh was infectious, his charm striking. "I promise you, I shall."

…

A year passed before Duncan met the strange man again. He was on a routine mission to recruit another few Wardens for the Joining. Lingering in the fighter pits and near the arenas, he found no man worthy of the cause. They were butchers, the lot of them, no finesse or true skill to be found. So Duncan wandered with his keen eye, a few men at his back, and passed judgment on those that might swallow the taint. By the end of the two week leave, he had reports of an infestation of Darkspawn and only one recruit that had a possibility of surviving the Joining if not life as a Grey Warden.

The night before he was meant to head back to Ferelden, he paid for them all to stay in an inn on the shore so they could board their ship without hassle the following morning. Duncan sat close to the bar, ordering only a single drink and working to chip a spot of blood from his gauntlet with a blunt thumbnail, drifting in and out of thought. The barman didn't bother him, and his men were sizing up the new recruit with critical skepticism.

"Ah, you have a habit of waiting in these places," a drawling man remarked, and Duncan peered over to his right to see the young elven assassin sitting on the stool next to him. His hair was pulled back away from his face, revealing his high forehead and charming cheekbones, eyes that vibrant and strange purple even in the dim light of the tavern. He wore a heavy black cloak that seemed to hang off his lithe body. "No worries, my friend, I have no bad news to deliver to you today."

Duncan straightened up, remembering his manners. "It is a pleasure to see you again," he said politely. "I didn't think I would, if I'm honest."

"Oh, we're wily ones, we assassins," the elf remarks slyly. "Difficult to get rid of us once we're on the scent."

Confused, Duncan raised an eyebrow. "And are you on the scent, here, in this little tavern?" he asked, turning on his stool to glance around and stretching his shoulders out. There were only a dozen or so patrons milling about, most drunk and in the little booths chatting quietly. No one seemed to stick out. He'd always been told Crows were the best of the best; they didn't take minor contracts, and they charged a fortune for their business.

The elf laughed lightheartedly and touched him gently on the shoulder. "You are forgetting yourself, my dear Grey Warden. Surely a man such as you would earn a great prize if bagged properly."

Duncan jolted in surprise, both from the contact and the words. "You are here to collect a contract put on _my _head?"

He laughed again and patted Duncan lightly before removing his hand. "No, of course not, Warden. Forgive this old Crow his harmless jokes." His purple eyes glittered. "I just find your reactions startlingly interesting to watch."

Relief welled inside him, and Duncan took a small drink of his ale to washing away the remaining trepidation. "An alarming joke, to be sure," he remarked, turning to face the elf head-on. "Do you have a name you'd care to share?"

For a moment, the elf seemed to think as his drink arrived at the bar. He wrapped long, gloved fingers around it without taking a drink. "Elaron," he confessed at last with a slightly sheepish smile. "Few people ask for my name these days. I'm rather well-known."

"I've been on the road for awhile," Duncan told him, mildly delighted to finally have a name to call. "Very isolated, searching for new recruits. Receiving the order to finally head home is the first time I've heard from the Wardens in too long."

"Ah, the Wardens should keep you closer to their heart, then," Elaron made a fist and thumped it against Duncan's chest. Again, Duncan startled at being touched so casually; he wasn't accustomed to it even after being in Antiva for so long where constant little brushes were common during conversation. Probably due to the fact that very few people spoke to him. Elaron caught onto his discomfort quickly and smiled widely. "I forget how finicky you Fereldens are," he remarked.

"Forgive me," Duncan said. "Antivan customs are still foreign to me despite how long I've been here."

"Forgiven," Elaron replied, finally taking a drink from his cup. "I will try to curb my natural instincts, but I can promise nothing."

"Don't go out of your way for me."

"Duncan!" One of his men suddenly called from behind, and a body fell between the two of them, half sprawled on the bar. The man's name was Cordion, and he gave Duncan a sloppy grin. "Hey, can I borrow a sovereign...or—or two?" His eyes moved toward a young girl with more makeup than clothes lingering near a booth. Duncan couldn't help the scowl that took over.

Before he could respond, his second, Torus, the only Antivan Warden in their group, grabbed Cordion by the arm and hauled him away from the two of them. "Sorry, Duncan, you know how he gets-" Torus' words came to a halt, and he stared openly at Elaron. "Oh! Uh, Warden-Commander, it's a surprise to see you here!" He let go of Cordion to cross his arms over his chest and make a hasty bow. "Forgive Cordion here; he can't hold his liquor. Duncan, I didn't know you were in the middle-"

"Relax, son," Elaron said, eyes kind, accent making the words roll. "Duncan and I were just having a friendly drink. You didn't interrupt anything crucial."

"Oh, uh, that's good."

"Hold on," Duncan interrupted, setting his mug down. "Warden-Commander?" he asked Elaron.

The boys hurried off, apologizing once more. Duncan waved them away and turned back to his counterpart. There was a smug smile on Elaron's face and a sort of gleeful mischief in his eyes. "I'm sorry for the deception, Duncan," he said, eyeteeth gleaming, "but it is so much fun to watch you draw your own conclusions. You saw my mark during our first meet, and I found that to be an easier explanation than the nasty business of one Warden eliminating a traitor."

So Elaron had killed Kasha before she could betray the Wardens; it was a more comforting explanation than a rogue Crow returning the list out of the kindness of his heart. Still, Duncan felt a bit deceived and glowered at the man. "Oh, come now, it was a harmless joke," the elf said. "Besides, I hate formality and ceremony. It was easier for you to relax when you thought I was an assassin, which is hardly healthy, my friend."

"So what is a Warden-Commander doing with the mark of the Crows on his wrist?" Duncan murmured.

"I was one, long ago," the Commander said. "I was conscripted by an old Ferelden Warden just before his Calling. He left right after my Joining for the Deep Roads. The mark, once branded into your skin, never goes away. Even if you change careers."

Elaron took another drink of his ale and tucked a stray bit of hair behind his pointed ear. Duncan sighed. "So why are you in this tavern then, Commander?"

"Because I'm heading to Ferelden, as well," he answered easily, leaning back in his chair. "I have business there, and what better way to travel than with my brothers?"

Duncan couldn't hold a grudge with Elaron attempting to charm his way past the lie, so he gave a small smile back. "Well, you will find no argument from us."

"Excellent," Elaron declared, raising his mug. Duncan gripped his, as well. "Let us drink then and be merry until duty calls in the morning, eh?"

They made a toast. "Sounds good to me."

…

Elaron had booked passage on their ship days in advance and near to Duncan's own cabin, almost as if he knew they would be called home soon. Duncan didn't bother to ask him; there was something frighteningly mysterious about the Commander that he couldn't put his finger on, almost as if he knew more than he was admitting. The friendliness and general joviality seemed a front meant to hide his real self. After all, he was once a Crow, and Crows were assassins. They were required to be ruthless and cold, and what better way to surprise the enemy than by establishing the exact opposite personality first?

Regardless, Duncan didn't press and kept his paranoid thoughts to himself. The men thought Elaron to be a fine man, his stories fascinating, and his easy demeanor a distinguishing trait. So while they all drank themselves silly and sang songs of brotherhood and shared life experiences and lessons, Duncan lingered in the background and smiled upon them but kept his own heart safe and guarded.

On the fourth night of the voyage, the stars twinkling distinctly in the sky, the sea black and calm, Elaron joined him on deck once most of the crew had gone to sleep, leaning his slender body on the railing so that he was facing Duncan. "You do not trust me," he accused quietly, but even the damning words had an amused lilt to them, as if he did not mind it so much.

"That is not true," Duncan argued. "I'm simply wary of you."

Elaron poked him lightly in the shoulder. "That's the same thing."

Duncan sighed. He knew it would be only a matter of time before he was confronted about it. His cold and distant behavior was difficult not to notice. "You play the comforting and amiable Commander, seeming to give everything away while revealing nothing. I have met men like you before, Elaron, and the secrets your kind carries, the sort that must be hidden with kindness, are always frightening." He looked for a change in Elaron's expression, expecting none, but there was. The Commander's face had fallen, his eyes distant, mouth turned down.

"I was a Crow and now I am a Warden," he spread his hands. "My secrets are dark, and they will always be. Yours are no better. The only difference is that I hide mine better. I can pretend that I haven't seen the bloated flesh of the Deep Roads or fought the Broodmothers that screech in the depths. You don't or can't, I haven't figured out which."

_Can't_, he didn't say. The frown disappeared, and Elaron's mouth tilted up. "You are a fascinating man, Duncan, the way your mind works. You can relax. I have no intention of betraying the Wardens. If I did, I would have stolen that list of names from Kasha and sold it for the coin."

Duncan shook his head, "I didn't mean—"

"The taint is in us both," Elaron said, touching his hand briefly before drifting away. _We are Brothers_, he didn't need to say, _trust me_. The words lingered unspoken in the air. "Goodnight," he called from darkness.

…

After their talk on the deck, things between Duncan and Elaron seemed to warm again. He was included in more conversations, and Duncan went out of his way to speak to the Commander and the rest of his men. He joined them at dinner and drank a little with them before bed. Elaron only seemed to become more fascinated with him as the voyage went on, and Duncan was becoming slightly concerned that their relationship was taking a different turn than he expected. The day before they were set to dock finally in Ferelden, Elaron confirmed his suspicions, much to his dismay.

The rest of the men had gone to bed already in preparation for the early docking the next day while Elaron and Duncan retired to the Commander's bunk for a nightcap before bed. Duncan found it helped him to sleep at night, and Elaron was happy to oblige. They nearly stumbled into the room as the boat hit a particularly turbulent wave, and Duncan shut the door with a small laugh as he helped the Commander up off the floor.

"You must watch your feet, my friend," he teased the elf as Elaron gracefully slinked into an upright position. "Can't afford to be clumsy in your line of work."

Elaron blinked. "I have never been called clumsy in my life. I would go so far as to say no elf has. You humans are the bumbling buffoons," he chuckled as he slipped behind Duncan and shoved him forward playfully. Duncan kept his feet, though, turning around.

"Oh, it's about race, now, is it?"

Elaron laughed. "You want to compare races?" He came close. "Humans I have never been partial to. You're all too tall," he declared, poking Duncan lightly in the chest. The top of his head came up to Duncan's chin. "And bulky. And _hairy_."

"Now you sound like you're talking about dwarves," Duncan told him.

"Dwarves are far too short," the Commander seemed to pout as if he regretted the fact. "And humans, I suppose, do have one redeeming feature."

Duncan tilted his head slightly. "We're all incredibly kind?" he joked, knowing that it was far from the actual truth.

"No, that's not it," Elaron shook his head, smile transforming into something serious, eyes lidding, coming close enough that Duncan could feel warm breath puff gently against his cheekbones. "They always tend to surprise me." A palm rested flat against his left breast, and a small thumb came to rest on his chin.

"Elaron—" Duncan tried to speak before it went any farther, but he was cut off by a soft mouth crushing to his, a thin arm wrapping around his neck, pulling him _down_ so they were on more equal footing. And Elaron's kiss was warm and wet and pleasant, tasting of ale instead of bitter blood, and their limbs seemed to slot together perfectly, but Duncan had tried such things before and knew what was missing. There was no great, hot spark to travel down his spine, no enticing shiver. The experience was _nice_ but it would never be what Elaron wanted or deserved.

So as the kiss slowed in response to his unresponsive lips, Duncan gently unwound the arms around his neck and parted, leaving Elaron's hands at his side. Much to his surprise, there didn't seem to be an awkward tension in the air, only a subtle disappointment. Elaron gave a soft sigh and tried to smile, but it wavered and didn't reach his eyes.

"I would have told you if you'd asked, my friend," Duncan said, a mild pain settling in his stomach at seeing Elaron so unhappy.

"Perhaps I should have," Elaron said. "At least you had the decency not to hit me for it, and for that I'm grateful."

"It is not a natural aversion to men, Elaron," Duncan frowned, alarmed that anyone would be so cruel for something so simple as a show of affection, an attempt to become closer through other means. "It is just not something I am capable of."

The elf held up a hand. "I understand," he murmured. "Please, if you would not mind, my friend, I'd like to wallow in my embarrassment on my own for a while."

There was nothing else left to say, and Duncan bade him a fond goodnight, both relieved to be out of the room and aching to go back. He had not had such a friend in quite a long time and hoped that it would not disappear because of his shortcomings.

…

Once they docked in Ferelden, Duncan and his men left Elaron to pursue their own goals. The Commander seemed to be in better spirits upon their departure, but Duncan knew just how easy it was for him to throw up such a mask. He worried about it for the better part of the day before his duties began to distract him, and he didn't see Elaron for several months afterward.

They met in the Deep Roads, of all places, and Duncan was one of the underlings to be led by the strange, Antivan Commander none of the others had heard of in a quest to eliminate a particularly uproarious Broodmother who had seated herself in the middle of an important crossroads just beneath one of the trade routes. She was pouring out Darkspawn at an alarming rate, and her children had a tendency to kidnap traders. Elaron gave him a mighty pat on the back when they saw one another and kindly asked him to help lead the way.

He wished Elaron hadn't put that burden on him, because he'd never seen a man die so bloody.

Elaron was skewered by a tentacle trying to protect one of their men, the organ burrowing into his body, crushing and tearing at his internal organs until it protruded from the other side, picking up the corpse and flinging it across the room until the elf smacked against the wall and collapsed face down onto the flesh-colored floor. Duncan couldn't help the scream that tore from his throat as he watched or the reckless vengeance that came forth upon seeing the lifelessness of his old friend.

When the beast was slain, Duncan ran to the fallen and turned Elaron over, cradling his head as if it mattered anymore. The man was dead, had been probably the moment the tentacle speared him; he most likely didn't even feel the fall. Already he was becoming cold, and Duncan bowed his head over him and tried to fight back the threatening tears.

A hand squeezed his shoulder in comfort, and Duncan tried to get a hold on himself. Grey Wardens fell; it was common but no less painful. He tucked a stray hair of Elaron's back over his pointed ear and closed his startled purple eyes out of respect before leaning down to place a kiss on his bloodied mouth, tasting the taint as he swallowed and pulled back.

_The taint is in us both_.

"Yes, my brother," his agonized whisper echoed, "it is."

…

The burial was grand and reminded Duncan of another long ago in a distant land. They entombed him with the other Warden-Commanders of Antiva, hands folded over his tapering waist, hair pulled back, face pale and no longer smiling. Just looking at him made Duncan feel ill, and he turned away more than once during the ceremony.

When it was all over and the massive population of mourners finally wandered home, Duncan was left standing in front of the tomb with the sun beating down on his back, sweat dripping into his eyes. He stayed for nearly three hours until a young recruit came up to touch him gently on the back and guide him away at last.

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><p><strong>I want to finish this for me, even if no one else intends to read it. Review if you like.<strong>


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